


Do shut up, dear

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Holmescest smutty fiku-miku [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Inapproprite use of Mycroft's possessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: A feel-good, post-TFP Holmescest smut with feelings.





	

It's been almost a fortnight since Eurus’ games and Mycroft still has not seen Sherlock. Whilst taking appropriate measures to ensure his sister’s safety, he endures the presence of his disapproving parents and analyses his chest pains. He sincerely means to contact his brother, yet there’s never enough time and the uncertainty is better than the clear confirmation that the bridge between them has burnt.

He comes home late at night, looking forward to quiet, solitary moments before the exhaustion will get the better of him. He carefully locks the door and stumbles over a dark heap purposely left on the floor. Coat, Sherlock’s, his scarf and one shoe. He takes a deep breath, prepares for a battle and follows other carelessly discarded items of clothing like breadcrumbs. After the last, memorable visit, the warning is appreciated, yet the mess is not. He collects the clothes as he goes, the path leads to the master bedroom. He hesitates, then strides in.

Sherlock does not notice him at first, too preoccupied with his crotch. When he does, his eyes glisten and he stops his frantic movements, but only for a second. ’Finally. You took your time, I’m afraid I’ve started without you.’

He most certainly has. Sprawled on the bed, nude and undeniably thrilled, his both hands are between his legs, stroking, caressing and stretching. Drops of moisture on his flat belly, flushed cheeks and neck, trembling thighs, hips rolling hypnotically. There’s a half-empty bottle of lubricant within his reach and an unopened condom. Sherlock struggles to keep the eye contact and fails, leans back, eyes half-lidded and lips parted in a soundless moan.

Mycroft collects himself, aware of the evidence of his interest and lays Sherlock’s outfit on the bed. ’Leave,’ he orders and steps away before a slick hand can catch his thigh.

’Must we go through this every time?’ Sherlock rolls his eyes. ’I came to help you unwind and you wind me up.’

’Sherlock-’ Mycroft begins and is immediately interrupted.

’ _No, this is wrong_ ,’ Sherlock mockingly imitates his voice and the tone of concern. _’Inappropriate, dangerous. Responsibility, consequences. Confusion, sexual frustration.'_

'Stop it.’

_I don’t want to hurt you, Sherly. You do not know what you truly want and it’s belonging, not sex.’_

'Stop it now.’

 _’You will grow out of it and thank me for not taking advantage,’_ Sherlock continues _,_ now sounding cross _._ Mycroft can’t help but notice that his fingers thrust in more forcefully. _’You ought to socialise with other people, find someone who is not biologically related to you. We will never engage in such behaviour ever again.'_

Such conversations often precede the exact opposite.

’I’m beginning to think the talk is actually your idea of a foreplay.’ Sherlock nudges Mycroft’s knee with his foot.’ Stop pretending, Myc. You need this as much as I do.’

More, Mycroft thinks, more than you can even imagine, little brother. This is why he loosens his tie, slips off his jacket and unbuttons the waistcoat. Sherlock grins, pleased as always when he gets his way. He eagerly spreads his legs to accommodate Mycroft and pushes a pillow under his backside.

’I’m going to take a shower and this is not an invitation,' Mycroft announces frostily. 'You may finish what you started, then go home.’

 

He shuts the bathroom door and leans against it. There are two safe options available: a quick, ice-cold shower or a long, warm one that involves taking matters into own hands. Minutes pass and he remains in the same position, distracted by a flood of distant memories. The bittersweet longing, forbidden temptation, unwanted desire and his firm decision not to act on his unwholesome impulses. Sherlock has already been damaged by one of his siblings.

He recalls one of his sporadic visits home, so vividly he bites his lip not to groan. It's Christmas Eve, close to midnight. He is in his childhood bedroom, obsessively analyses Sherlock's lingering gaze he has observed earlier that day, combined with both oddly warm smiles and unending taunts about his obvious weight gain. Then someone unnervingly slowly opens the door and sneaks in. Sherlock, of age but still innocent, omits long explanations and serious discussions about incest. He lets his silk robe slide off his shoulders and climbs onto the bed. All the arguments against evaporate from Mycroft’s mind, the late hour and the silver moonlight reflected in Sherlock’s eyes turn it into a dream. Their lips join in the first, shy kiss, surprisingly not followed by a lightning bolt from the heavens. Mycroft wraps his arms around Sherlock’s naked back, pulls him closer, hums in delight when Sherlock opens up for him. Encouraged by his brother's immensely enthusiastic reactions, he pushes at his shoulders until Sherlock lands on his back and covers his quivering body with his own. Sherlock’s arms ensnare him, assuring he will not back away and parts his legs invitingly. In the deep silence, Sherlock’s quiet gasps are deafening, Mycroft kisses him again to muffle the sounds of approval, as he begins to grind against Sherlock’s groin. In the heat of the moment, they hold onto each other as if they were drowning, rubbing desperately, seconds away from the crushing release. Sherlock stays afterwards, boneless, sleepy and satisfied. They plan to wake before dawn, early enough to hide the evidence of their incestuous experiment. Mycroft, feeling absurdly protective, given the circumstances, spoons Sherlock from behind, inhales the scent of his skin and smooths his unruly curls. No one will know and it is not going to happen again.

He is woken by insistent movements under the covers. Sherlock deliberately slides his bum against his skin, up and down, lazily but has no intention of stopping. Mycroft’s body, way ahead of his mind, is ready to comply with Sherlock’s wishes and that frightens him. While he is delivering the first of many lectures about the dangers of succumbing to such destructive, hedonistic urges, Sherlock retrieves a tube of lubricant from the nightstand. He ignores protests and methodically prepares himself in a manner that betrays both inexperience and undisguised want. Mycroft grips his wrist and tells him to leave. After a quarter of a century, he still doesn’t know how he ends up cradling Sherlock in his arms, soothing his whimpers of discomfort, buried deep inside him. He nuzzles Sherlock’s neck, paws at his chest until Sherlock covers his hand with his own and laces their fingers together. The thrusts are intentionally shallow and gentle, unhurried and well-aimed. Mycroft digs his fingers into a narrow hip, presses his cheek against a hot, flushed one and listens to the quietest, shaky pants and moans of unexpected pleasure. Before long, Sherlock relaxes and instinctively arches his back, as much as possible, pushing his backside into Mycroft’s groin. This is Mycroft’s undoing. His determination not to rut into him like a savage crumbles spectacularly and in the end, he clasps his palm firmly over Sherlock's mouth. Two hours later, they have breakfast with Mummy and Daddy, who are positively astonished at Sherlock’s sudden appetite.

 

It has to be the appeal of breaking the taboo and the stealthiness that fuels Sherlock’s ardent desire. Over the years, they establish a pattern, Mycroft resists and restrains himself, while Sherlock encourages him to ignore the norms of basically any civilised society. Layers and layers of guilt and remorse conceal genuine affection, devotion and unfading passion. It is with relief and heartache that Mycroft learns of Sherlock’s new flatmate. John can be the answer to his self-punishing prayers. He isn’t, though. If anything, his presence intensifies Sherlock’s inappropriate cravings. He tells Mycroft about his dreams of the two of them getting caught red-handed by John. Mortified and aroused in equal measures, Mycroft limits his already infrequent visits. That only leads to heart-stopping, extremely private meetings in his office.

 

When they all leave Sherrinford, Mycroft hopes that will be the definite end of his liaison with Sherlock. All his faults, disastrous decisions, lies exposed. The image of Sherlock turning the gun on himself haunts him. He takes the blame for that horror, for the chain of events he has started. This must be the last straw, the one mistake that will tear them apart forever.

 

'You cannot hide in there forever,' Sherlock obviously issues him a challenge.

Mycroft sheds the rest of his clothes. He does not step into the shower cubicle, instead, covers himself with a dressing gown and emerges from the bathroom.

Sherlock is clearly on the very edge of a much-needed release. Mycroft’s jacket is all wrinkled and filthy, Sherlock clutches it tightly to his belly and lower, much lower. It’s a mystery why he insists on Mycroft’s involvement since he is perfectly able of entertaining himself.

’That was quick,’ he remarks, but his strained voice ruins the effect. 'No shower. Taken off your armour. Still hard. Conclusion? Now, either join me or bring me your umbrella.’

Mycroft shudders, he tries to erase the memory of Sherlock violating his brolly (more accurately, himself with it), but it actually brightens every rainy day. 

Sherlock smirks and extends both arms in front of him. 

'Where's your tie?’

Mycroft avoids contact as he retrieves the ruined jacket. ’You’re insufferable.’

’So are you. Made me wait here all this time. Ignored me for two whole weeks.'

’Sherly-'

’Myc, must you complicate everything? Let me simplify this. No, you are not a god, you cannot predict everything and yes, you’re only human, bound to make mistakes. Yes, we’re clever enough to fool everyone around, even Eurus didn’t see through our little lies. No, I wasn’t going to shoot myself in front of you, that as the only way to get all three of us out of there alive. No, you’re not the sibling who traumatised me and no, I don’t hate you. Now, can you, please, stop torturing yourself and me? If it's not too much trouble, dear.’

Mycroft wants to argue, push Sherlock away for his own safety, force him to engage in a normal relationship. And yet he doesn’t slap Sherlock’s hands away from his waist, allows his brother to pull him onto the bed, between his legs. He moves to untie the gown and is stopped by a lustful demand, 'Leave it.' Sherlock has always found perverse pleasure in staining Mycroft's clothes.

Sherlock unwraps the condom and rolls it onto Mycroft’s length, then stretches on his back in anticipation. Mycroft loves it when Sherlock's frantic urgency fades away, when he’s finally filled and stills entirely to just feel, to savour the rare moment when nothing separates them. After a while, Mycroft curiously fingers the place where they are intimately joined, amazed by how perfectly they fit together, despite their differences.

He mouths at the elegant neck of his brother, wishes he could leave a visible mark, a sign for everyone to see. The inconspicuous declarations of their mutual commitment, the wedding ring and the navy scarf, pass unnoticed, unlike lovebites.

’Stop thinking,’ Sherlock chides and tightens his legs around Mycroft's thighs. ’Do something productive instead.’

Mycroft obliges and indulges his brother, and himself, with long, deep strokes. Every time he bottoms out, Sherlock's breath hitches and he tilts his chin upwards, lost in overwhelming sensation. He releases subtle, soft moaning sounds and nothing arouses Mycroft more. Keeping their voices down was a necessity first, now, in Mycroft’s otherwise empty house, it’s a deliberate choice. Mycroft finds exaggerated, loud screams of pleasure vulgar and off-putting. Sherlock is aware of his preferences and the way he whispers his brother's name melts the ice around Mycroft's heart.

In moments like this, it's beyond Mycroft understanding why his arrangement with Sherlock is unethical, immoral and illicit. Even more, why he fights it and why he hasn't chained Sherlock to his bed yet. He does not remember the reason why their trysts must remain furtive and feels confident he can justify this particular case of incest.

Sherlock loses patience with the gentle approach that Mycroft favours. His questionable form of encouragement, nails scratching sensitive areas, gives Mycroft an excuse to pin his wrists to the mattress. Sherlock allows it, which beyond any doubt proves he has forgiven Mycroft. His compliance inspires darkest fantasies that Mycroft hesitates to fulfil, although so far, Sherlock has always approved of his brother's exceptionally wicked ideas. 

Sherlock's completion is silent, his mouth falls open and eyes close, only when it's over a content sigh escapes his lips. Mycroft watches him intently, wishes he could stop the time and live in that moment forever, staring at his blissed-out brother. The contemplation does not last long, Sherlock twists under him in a bid to provoke him to finish. Mycroft cannot deny him. He abandons the leisurely rhythm, releases Sherlock's arms in order to seize his hips with enough force to leave a finger-shaped signature. There's no room for tenderness or consideration anymore, Mycroft gives in to the primal drives until he climaxes with a strangled shout.

When he comes back to reality, Sherlock is still there, alive and at peace. The tension leaves Mycroft's body and he relaxes, enjoying the rare treat of what Sherlock calls disdainfully 'after-shag body fluids exchange'.

 

'Yes, I m taking this with me,' Sherlock states mutinously, as he folds the dressing gown until it can fit into a pocket. 'John the balloon inspired me to make Myc the body pillow.'

'How very discreet,' Mycroft says sarcastically to hide how flattered he is. He pictures the cuddly Myc wrapped in his gown and Sherlock curled next to it.

'No one will suspect the true purpose of the pillow. I'm too convincing as the awkward virgin. Sex? Já, ég tala íslensku. Sjö, átta, níu, tíu.'

The lecture about his arrogance can wait. In return, Sherlock shows another sign of his uncommon generosity and lies on his side. Mycroft scoots closer, his chest against Sherlock's back. The position still makes him giddy with inconvenient happiness and lust. It may never change, he thinks, they can have another twenty-five years.

**Author's Note:**

> Holmescest is so shippable. Resistance is futile. I know, I tried.


End file.
